


A Heated Affair

by Winklepicker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: It is too hot. Sherlock and John amuse themselves with a never-ending game of celebrity head until Sherlock hears something that might help him end it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely [SherlocksSister](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister) who was inspired by a sweaty curl in the middle of Benedict's forehead. 
> 
> Was this the perfect opportunity for smut? Yes.
> 
> Did I take it? No.

It was hot.

Too hot.

At least, it was for Sherlock. John had years of experience wearing full military gear in countries hot enough to melt tarmac. John was fine.

For Sherlock, London in this heat may as well have been the deepest pits of Hades. As the temperature rose, his intelligence fell. Or so he said.

‘You know, you could wear something a little more appropriate.’ John stood with hands on hips, shaking his head at the Sherlock-shaped obstruction lying on the bathroom floor.

Sherlock lay on the cold tiles like a be-suited starfish, limbs spread-eagled as far from his torso as he could stretch them. He mumbled something to the tiles then gave out a long groan.

John prodded Sherlock’s bottom with his toe. ‘Get up, I need the loo.’

Sherlock managed to wiggle a few fingers at the toilet and mumble some more.

‘Nope. No.’ John grabbed Sherlock’s ankles and dragged him out into the hallway. He stepped over him and darted into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. When he emerged Sherlock was gone.

John found him in the living room kicking at his trousers—stuck at his shoes like Peter Pan's shadow—while his head was caught somewhere inside his shirt. John lay a hand on Sherlock’s overheated belly.

‘Stay still.’ John sighed. Sherlock froze mid kick before his arms slumped. He kept still and pliant while John extricated him from trousers and shirt.

Released from his cloth prison, Sherlock was a picture of misery. Red face, sad frown. His hair flat with sweat—one dark curl perfectly plastered on the centre of his forehead. Only the glitter on his Captain Plunderpants underpants lent some liveliness to the whole sorry picture.

It was John's idea to play the Rizla game, though he tutted at Sherlock’s stash of cigarette papers. John chose Jessie J for Sherlock, safe in the knowledge that he’d never guess it. And Sherlock, in his overheated delirium, chose Madonna. It was the fourth time he'd used her name but given John never guessed it, Sherlock stuck to what worked.

‘Am I…’ Sherlock's head lolled back on his chair.

John waited.

Then waited a bit more.

A small snore came from Sherlock’s open mouth. John poked his shin with his toe and Sherlock sputtered awake with a jolt and bellowed, ‘Am I a vegetable?’ To which John began laughing uncontrollably. When his tears subsided and all that was left was a pain in his side, he gave Sherlock a gigglesome, ‘No.’

The game continued with almost every innocuous question eliciting hysterical laughter from John. This led Sherlock to declare him heat addled, and to Google this Madonna person so he could end the damn game.

A painful twenty minutes later Sherlock sat up straight as a rod and held up a finger to shush John. Wide-eyed and with a slightly frightening grin, he shot out of his chair and disappeared down the stairs.

John hardly had time to grunt out, ‘What the hell?’ and rushed to the window to see Sherlock sprinting down the street in nothing but his glittery pants.

 

* * *

 

With every bare footfall on the baking pavement, Sherlock regretted his impromptu jog more and more. But he couldn't turn back now. He was almost there, he could hear it. He rounded the corner and there it was barreling toward him. He ran out onto the road and forced the brightly painted van to a stop.

The driver stuck his head out of his window screaming an impressive array of obscenities while a panting Sherlock did his best to placate him. This culminated with Sherlock begging on his knees and singing _I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy_ using his best Bette Davis impression.

‘Alright, stop, stop, stop.’ The driver clambered into the back of the van and opened up his window. ‘Come on, what do you want?’

Sherlock stood and swiped grit from his knees. ‘Two please. Vanilla. No topping.’

 

* * *

 

John tapped his fingers on the chair arms. Sherlock could go running about in this heat if he wanted, he was staying put. He peeled the Rizla paper off his head for a peek, gave it a fresh lick and stuck it back on. Madonna again. He should have known.

The door soon slammed open downstairs and Sherlock returned, falling into his chair holding two ice-cream cones.

‘You went out for ice-cream?’ John stared at him.

Sherlock panted. The most minuscule of grunts may have passed for a yes.

‘You ran out in nothing but your underpants to get ice cream?’

Sweat beaded all over Sherlock’s red skin. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘How the hell did you pay?’ John’s voice rose.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, chest still heaving.

John blinked hard at Sherlock, slack-jawed and frowning. ‘Thanks. I suppose.’ He stuck his hand out for a cone.

Sherlock shook his head again, still panting, and gestured at the paper stuck to John's forehead. He raised both cones, oh so delicately placed them on his nipples with a wince, then tapped the tips for good measure. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at John.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Heated Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927548) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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